


Paint Job

by sammys_lover



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Body Paint, F/M, Hand Jobs, I think?, I'm Sorry, LIGHT body worship, Lemon, MEMBRANE'S ROBOT ARMS ARE HOT OKAY??, Mechaphilia, Mutual Masturbation, Porn, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, You touch his chest, body painting, dilf, don't look at me, hsjfks don't look at my shame, like a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammys_lover/pseuds/sammys_lover
Summary: You're competing in a body art competition in the city -- the Professor is your partner in this artistic venture.Can you manage to keep your cool while you paint a piece on his chest?
Relationships: Professor Membrane x Reader, Professor Membrane/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 119





	Paint Job

“Alright, for the contest – all we’re going to need is a couple of paintings that will really blow ‘em away!” 

The professor’s brows raise, and you...assume he smiles. You can’t exactly tell with those goggles on and his collar up like that. 

“Oh, I've got just the thing! Behold!” He pulls some... large tube-looking thing with multiple inner nozzles and brushes. “It has the artistic talents of all the greats -- and the not-so-greats -- All powered by a miniature super computer! With its endless database of artwork, it can paint a masterpiece in seconds! Mind if I demonstrate?” 

You laugh a little, nodding your head and holding out your non-dominant arm for him to... hold? Paint? Demonstrate on? 

You watch the device as he slides it up your arm carefully, pressing a little knob and pushing a button before releasing it completely. 

It whirs quietly as it slowly floats back down, feather-light touches all along your arm, leaving behind- oh, wow... 

It leaves behind a perfect recreation of Claude Monet’s "Water Lilies and Japanese Bridge" before it floats off your wrist and to the ground between you both. 

You look in awe at the art, not wanting to touch it for fear of ruining it. 

“Oh, don’t worry – it should stay put for a while- oh, it’s already dry... You can touch it if you’d like.” 

You run your fingertips over the scene on your arm very, very carefully before smiling up at him. You note a slightly pink tinge on his cheek when you do. 

“That’s amazing! Seriously!” You set your paintbrushes down on the table, holding the device in your hand, raising it so it can do the same to his arm, but he raises them to stop you. 

“Well, now, I know what you’re thinking, but unfortunately the device is too small to fit around me – I'll have to paint myself, though I cannot say I'm much of an artist.” 

You shoot him a teasing look before picking your palette back up from the table, choosing a few colors. Maybe you’ll paint a cloudy sky. 

“Nonsense. I've gotcha. Now, roll up your sle-” He’s already rolling it up as you speak and- oh. Oh, yeah. Robot arms. 

God, those are hotter than you remember them being. 

They’re complicated machinery, able to twist and turn as he pleases, not to mention the amazing strength they provide. He could probably single-handedly lift a car- stop a train- oh, that solid metal and gears would probably crush you in his embrace as he lifts you against the wall and- 

Uh, what were you doing, again? 

You realize you’ve been staring. 

For a long. Time. 

Oh my god, painting. 

“Uh.” You feel your cheeks heat up, and you drop your eyes to the palette. “Sorry! Sorry, I was just uh, thinking.” 

“About?” he prompts, your face growing even hotter somehow. 

“Uh- your arms!” you answer honestly, quickly following up with: “I don’t want to get paint in the inner mechanisms by accident. I know your work is the best of the best, but still -- I'm sure you don’t paint often, so...” 

He hums in thought before nodding in agreement. 

“No, you have a point. Painting isn’t very scientific – therefore, I do not do it often. And I have no idea how it would or would not affect my arms...” He hums in thought once again. “But what else could you paint?” 

Your eyes flick to his chest- it's just for a second! Just a split, teeny tiny second – but he still catches it, and you assume he beams. 

“There’s an idea!” Before you can protest or stop him in any way, he’s already undoing those buttons on his coat thing and- 

RED ALERT 

RED ALERT 

You almost cover your face and tumble backwards out of your chair – my GOD he’s fucking RIPPED. 

He leaves the coat open, and you just- god. 

His chest is hairless, his skin smooth. His skin is surprisingly the same tone as his face, despite the fact that he never seems to take off that lab coat. You have no idea how he managed to have a six-pack. He- he spends all his time in that damned lab. 

Then there was his face- oh, you- you weren’t sure you’d even seen it before. You still couldn’t see his eyes, but from what you could see, he was handsome. And even that wasn’t doing him justice. He had light stubble, a strong chin, lips that look oh, so soft, and a nose like his kids. 

“Y/n?” His voice snaps you out of your staring, and you watch in horror as he fucking SMIRKS. 

OH NO OH FU- 

“Yes?” 

You do your best to sound as composed as you can, picking up a brush and mixing some white with your pink – anything to distract you. 

“I asked if you were alright.” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Your voice sounds strained, but you swallow down your urge to thirst over his... y’know, everything, looking up at him with what you hoped was a look of professionalism and composure. 

“I’m perfectly fine! Let’s uh, I’m gonna get started now, alright? Wh-” You laugh, despite yourself. “Where should I start?” 

Ugh, you wish you could see his eyes. It might help you gauge how comfortable he is and whether he could see right through you or not. He probably could. He's a smart man, after all, and he was probably toying with you.

“Well, I suppose-” the corner of his mouth turns down – he's thinking. “Hmm. Well, I’m not the artist here. Begin wherever you think is best!” His cheery tone is accompanied by a smile, and you feel your heart flutter a bit at it. 

Okie dokie, then. 

Well, logic says that you should start at the top and work your way down. 

You swallow. Hard. 

You set your palette down in your lap, leaning forward just a bit and gently swiping some blue paint over his collarbone, and curse your second nature, your other hand presses softly against his breast to hold him steady. 

G o d , you felt his muscles twitch under your fingertips, and his skin is hot to the touch. 

Okay, okay, uh, focus. 

You swipe your brush over him – his collarbones, over his heart, and over the entirety of his upper chest, completely avoiding his nipples – all the while the both of you had been making small talk – and it might be your imagination, but you could swear this his cheeks were pink. 

Then your brush, carefully dipped in your paint, ghosts over one nipple – and you watch it harden beneath the brush, his heavy gaze weighing you down as you struggled to keep yourself together. You move your brush to the other, where a glob of paint threatened to ruin your work so far. Without thinking, you move your thumb and swipe it away – and you could have sworn you’d seen him shudder. 

You’re so distracted that you fumble with your brush, and in an attempt to catch it, alert the professor. He tries to help, but ends up bumping it back towards himself – and it hits his goggles, paint smeared across the lenses. 

You’re both silent for a moment. 

Then he bursts out laughing. 

You join him, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of the situation, as he took his goggles off and set them on the table as you searched for something to wipe them off with. You settle for a little white towel you’d had in your bag. 

“Here,” You pull it from your bag, still laughing a little, zipping it up before turning to hand the cloth over to him. “This should w-” 

Woah, my. 

You didn’t realize how much his son looked like him until just now – Membrane’s eyes are a lovely shade of brown, tired underneath a layer of natural wide-eyed energy and intelligence. 

He takes it, his eyes locking with yours as he smiles. “Thank you, but it looks like they’ll have to remain off for now.” 

Well, alrighty, then. 

Jesus, you’ve never seen him so- so exposed in front of you. And you don’t want to push it, but maybe... 

“You should take your coat off.” Well, you didn’t mean to blurt it like that, but here we are. 

He raises his brows, and you continue. “I just don’t wanna get paint on it.” 

He maintains eye contact with you as he pauses, and then shrugs off the lab coat completely. Oh, god. You could drool. 

“Is this alright?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Don’t drool, don’t drool, don’t drool- 

You place your hand on his chest once again, only now you were painfully aware of his eyes watching you, a blush on his face, obviously pleased with himself.

As you continue to paint, your hands trail down his chest to this torso, and you note his- his happy trail. God, if you weren’t painting him, you’d lick your way down his chest and kiss your way across his hips, continuing down to his- 

“Y/n.” 

He tilts your chin upwards, and you look him in the eye once again, a hand still on his chest – well, more his abdomen now. You could feel every tight muscle beneath your palm and your fingertips, shifting and hot with each of his breaths. 

“Yes?” 

You try to sound as calm as you can, but goodness, you can’t help it. He’s just- he's so-! 

“You’re very readable, you know.” He has a knowing look on his face, cool and composed as your flustered state only gets worse. 

“I’m sorry,” You squeak, your hand unmoving. Well, this is it. You decide to try and be bold. “You’re very handsome.” 

His blush grows, and his smirk matches. 

“You find me handsome?” 

Oh god, oh fuck, oh no. 

“I do,” You try to flirt, all smoothness lost in your flustered state. “And if I may, you’re also a pretty nice canvas.” 

He laughs – it's such a charming sound, and you’re a liiiiiiiittle embarrassed to admit that it gets you wet. 

“If you find me that useful, I insist you continue.” 

He’s- he’s not seriously-? 

Ah, but the ever-smug smirk on his face screamed that he was. He really DID want you to continue. To keep touching him.

Well, you really don’t want to disappoint him... 

You mix up more paint, the colors getting darker as you went further down. 

Your hand was pressed softly to him, his skin hot and muscles solid under your fingertips, and it didn’t help that you could feel everything shift when he took a breath. Things were just so intimate, despite where you were, but fuck all of that. Fuck it and throw it to the wind. 

Your brush stops just below his belly button, though you desperately wanted to continue further, you looked to him for consent. 

“I may have to smudge paint with uh... my fingers rather than a brush.” You pause, tucking the paintbrush behind your ear. “Is that alright?” 

There’s a look about him that you just can’t pinpoint – and if he hadn’t willingly exposed himself and been blushing so horribly that it spread to his ears, you wouldn’t have had the slightest idea that he was so... excited by your touch. 

“Do whatever you have to do, my dear.” 

Oh, fuck. 

You take a breath you hope isn’t shaky, holding eye contact as you use your fingers to scoop up just a bit of paint, trailing your pointer down his happy trail, watching his body shiver as you suddenly stopped and drug your finger back up teasingly. 

You couldn’t ignore the bulge in his pants, and you didn’t want to. You wanted to have him hot and heavy in your hand. You’d pay his stupid dry-cleaning bill if he asked, his pants be damned. He would be getting paint on them,but neither of you cared.

You drag your finger back down once again, your other hand moving from his abs to fiddle with the button on his pants. 

How long had been for him, you wonder? All those days and nights cooped up in that lab must have all of his attention nearly all of the time – and any moments he has to spare between work are spent with his children. 

When was the last time he had held himself in the palm of his hand? 

The button comes undone. 

When was the last time he was so hard he couldn’t focus on anything but needing the feeling of a hand on his cock, pumping him? 

You ever-so-slowly undo his fly, the paint long forgotten by you both. 

His cock strains against his boxers, and you have to focus on steadying yourself, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. 

Deciding to be bold, you look up at him the very second his cock strings free, hardening as you didn’t speak. You merely smirk, slowly taking him into your grasp – he's long, with impressive girth, and if you were to have things your way, you’d be on your knees right in that very moment. 

He’s hot in your palm, and his eyes are filled with lust as you run your thumb over the head of him, another shiver wracking through him. 

“I don’t believe I've ever seen an artist use this technique.” He jokes, despite the look of raw arousal written all over his reddened face. 

“Well,” you begin to pump him, just a smidge of paint smearing itself across his shaft. He clenches his jaw to muffle a groan. “You learn something new every day, don’t you, professor?” 

He pants as you continue to jack him off, his eyes flicking from yours to your skirt. You subconsciously spread your legs just a bit wider. 

“What better way to learn than through doing?” he fires back, though he didn’t dare move yet. 

You pump him agonizingly slow, and he has to restrain himself from bucking into your palm. 

Your unoccupied hand, which had previously been resting on his thigh, moved to move the fabric up your thighs. 

“Wonderful point.” 

He takes your body language as consent, your chairs closer as he does exactly what you had wanted him to- he locked eyes with you, his strong mechanical hand moving to run up your thigh, pushing your underwear aside to feel just how absolutely dripping wet you were. 

God, just the thought of his fingers on you already had you ready to grind against his every move. You’d seen him work with them before, how nimble and skilled they were, the intricate wiring and metal curves expertly assembled – his arms and hands were truly beautiful machinery, and you felt that beautiful machinery pressing two fingers against your entrance, easily sliding inside you in an instant, the cool palm of his hand pressing against your clit, hardened and throbbing. 

You let out a needy moan at the contact, picking up speed as you continued to pump him, your orgasm coiling tightly in your gut, your walls twitching around his fingers as he began his movement. 

He moved his fingers in and out of you, moving them in a “come hither” motion inside you, the gears in his palm shifting under the metal, the movement giving your clit the exactly friction it needed. 

You can’t help it- you grind against his hand, practically humping it where you sat, his cock twitching in your palm, signaling that he was close, he had to be. 

You felt hot and bothered and your sex feels heavy with the absolutely desperate need to cum as he looked deep into your eyes, his brows knit as he rolled his hips against your hand – twice, before he cums with a low groan, melting into rich moans that graced the air around you. Fuck, just that noise alone paired with the fire of his fingers twitching up to rub you in all the right ways was enough to rip a strangled moan from you as the band inside your stomach snapped, and you came – hard – waves of pleasure washing over you and drowning you in your own head. For a brief moment, all you can see is stars. 

The both of you pant, still abuzz with an afterglow as the professor withdraws his fingers from you with a lewd pop. You shiver and whimper at the feeling, letting him go as well. His cum had landed on your arm and almost all the way up to your shirt. He grabs a nearby rag that had been intended for paint, gently wiping his fingers off before cleaning his cum off of your arm – you insisted you could take care of your clothes.

There's a beat of stunned silence.

“Well, then.” 

He laughs at your quiet words, and you laugh along with him – amazed to note that both his painting and most of your own were still intact. 

Oh, right. The contest. 

You glance at the clock on the wall behind you both, noting that it was after the contest had already ended. Oops.

Eh, it was worth it.

“Ah... well, looks like we’re too late for that art thing, huh?” You nod at the clock as Professor Membrane tucks himself back into his pants, twisting to take a look for himself. 

“It seems we are.” He turns his attention back to you as he stands, offering his hand to help you up, which you take. 

“I suppose the only thing to do now is to wash off all this paint.” He has that smirk about him – and you know exactly where he’s going with it. “May I have your assistance?” 

More reasons to have your hands on his chest? 

Yes, please.


End file.
